


Of Squirrels and Robins

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff, I'm Bad At Tagging, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oneshot, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:33:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5285669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have a platonic break up in the middle of a park because they're very dramatic. </p><p>It is johnlock though, promise.</p><p>Not entirely sure where this has come from, but I suck at summaries and it gave me something to do on the bus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Squirrels and Robins

"John," his voice caught in his throat, thick with the bile threatening to surge upwards. An ice cold wind whipped through his tousled hair, lifting various curls and throwing them left and right. With a particularly harsh gust, his scarf caught and began flying around his neck, exposing bare skin where his collar didn't quite manage to cover. But the prevailing shudder didn't phase him. He was numb to the world. 

A few paces in front of him, John stopped walking just short of a small puddle that had gathered in the dips of the pavement. It's leaf infested contents rippled as the wind skipped across it, seemingly bypassing John altogether and hitting Sherlock full on. It had only just stopped raining, but the air was still heavy and damp; clouded by the petrichor.

"What, Sherlock?" John quizzed, turning around to face Sherlock with his fists clenched at his sides. Even at this distance Sherlock could see that the tips of his ears were burning red from the cold, or possibly the anger. 

Sherlock faltered, thumbing the bottom of his sleeve as he chewed his bottom lip. God, he hadn't expected him to turn around. Now what? 

"Sherlock," John warned, putting one foot in front of the other as he glowered. Sherlock could feel himself crumbling under the sincere hatred in John's gaze: those warm blue eyes he'd come to love becoming more difficult to read. When had he stopped being able to know what was on John's mind? When had that happened? His eyes were the same warm, Mediterranean Sea blue, yet the pattern of the tides were different. The currents had changed. What Sherlock once regarded as having the utmost beauty was now a complete mystery to him. Mesmerising, but with the distinct fear of wanderlust.

He was lost. 

"Sherlock, if you're not going to talk then I'd better be on my way," John's voice darted between the gusts of wind, overpowering each blow with one almighty throw as it fell from John’s mouth. Sherlock's non-complacent tyranny of thoughts were drowned out completely as a result. What had he been thinking?

"Sorry," he managed, surprised at how strong his voice was. There was no trace of any misery behind his utterance, but he was glad for it. Being confident had always been his biggest lie; his most perfectly executed defensive mechanism that always sprung to life the moment he felt challenged. As it turned out, admitting defeat with John was another excuse for his over-exaggerated and completely false self-confidence to shine. 

Maybe it was better that way. After all, that’s what the problem had initially been about. That was why they were standing alone in the middle of the park, facing one another at either ends of the path like the setup for a gunfight in a stereotypical cowboy movie. A very bad stereotypical cowboy movie, in which one of the cowboys wouldn’t pull out his gun. He’d let the bullet come to him instead. 

He already felt as though he’d been shot in the chest though, so he supposed: ‘What harm would an imagined wound do?’

It was good that this was happening. Good that they were going their separate ways. Good. 

Across from him, John arched an eyebrow. Sherlock shoved his hands in the coat pockets stitched in just below the lapel, not trusting himself to properly hide how the situation was making him feel. In his pockets, his fingers stretched as far as the material would allow, before drumming across his chest in time to a sporadic song that was impossible for even him to follow. His arms felt weak as his heart thudded heavily in his chest, wriggling his toes in the tips of his shoes in an attempt to feel warmth in at least some part of his body. 

“‘Sorry?’” John repeated, apparently confused. A lone leaf twirled around his foot, but he paid it no attention. “That’s what you’re saying? ‘Sorry’? You can’t fix everything with a simple, run of the mill ‘sorry’, Sherlock. It doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t work, coming from you. Coming from what you’ve done. Look at you. You can’t even look at me properly!”

He was right. During John’s speech, Sherlock’s eyes had darted around in search of something else to look at. Something less painful. In his case, a clump of grass spilling out onto the path caught his attention. The small green spikes hung lazily over one another, bent over in shelter as the wind flattened them. Could he get away with doing that? Maybe if he lay on the ground, face down against the wind John would leave him alone. Accidentally step on him a few times, if he would be willing to let Sherlock have the honour. That could work. Except, he wasn’t a blade of grass keeling over as December rolled in. He was a person. A person who had somehow managed to make possibly the biggest mistake humanly possible; and in doing so had completely destroyed his relationship with John.

“What’s wrong with you?” John’s voice sounded again, but Sherlock didn’t reply, blinking at the collection of haggard green blades instead. “Sherlock? I want to help you, honestly, I do-”

“No you don’t,” Sherlock puffed out a short laugh, stunning even himself. He hadn’t meant to say that. Definitely thought it, but most desperately didn’t want to say it. John leaned back slightly, eyebrows knitting together and jaw clenching. Sherlock decided to take it. 

“You’ve never wanted to help me. Never. I’m not going to deny that you have helped me, because of course you have. But really, John. What was I, ever, to you? A reduction on the cost of your rent in a prime London spot? An excuse not to spend anymore time than you had to with your alcoholic sister? Someone who would show you the parts of London that other people rarely get to see? I thought you wanted to see it. 

“You needed the adrenaline. You needed something to take your mind off everything that was going on inside your head. You needed to be cured of the boredom rattling around your brain. You’ve never wanted to help me. Never,” his voice shook with the last word, confidence breaking down to be replaced with the self-doubt spilling through, like a dam that had remained standing for such a long time finally giving way. 

A few metres away, a squirrel scarpered down from its hiding place higher up in the tree. It stopped as it reached the foot of the trunk, quickly scratching at the side of it’s face as the tail flicked lightly. Its head tilted in the direction of Sherlock, and then towards John, who was silent under the weight of Sherlock’s words. Neither of them noticed the grey spectator, too focused on one another to care. Eventually however, John’s voice box spluttered back into life. The squirrel vanished back up into the tree.

“What?” John finally managed, staring in disbelief. “I’ve always wanted to help you. Is this where all this has come from? You thinking that I don’t care?” While he was talking, he took another step forward, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Sherlock watched him through heavy eyes. 

Is this what it had come to, then? John lying straight to his face? Of course Sherlock had known about the phone calls. The nights where the doctor would vanish and return in the early hours of the morning, without saying a word. The quick glances at his watch, where after he'd then leave again. Sherlock knew that he always went straight to the telephone box at the end of the road. He knew that John was trying to hide something. 

So, and quite reasonably in his own opinion, he had acted. Stalking John every now and again, only to find him sitting at a bar with a beautiful young woman. Sherlock hated himself for being the happiness that filled him when he noted that it was never the same woman. Clearly they weren’t what John wanted. 

Technically he shouldn't have cared. He and John weren't in any relationship besides platonic. That's just how it was. At first, Sherlock hadn't minded when John would ditch him for the evening to spend it with some mundane creature. Then it started to change. Green would flash across his vision before the jealousy growled in his stomach like thunder. To see John with anyone else made him feel sick. 

It didn't take a genius to work out why. 

At Sherlock’s nonexistent response, John took another step forward. Sherlock immediately looked away and blinked at the puddle, head low as John drew closer. 

“Sherlock, is it that?” John asked, voice quieter now. The wind pelting Sherlock’s face diminished as John blocked it, now only several inches in front of him. “You can tell me. Is this why you've been acting differently lately? You think I don't appreciate you? Is that it?” 

There was that laugh again. Sherlock really needed to get that under control. The small chuckle he did when he was in disbelief; telling people he wasn't taking the situation seriously when in actual fact he was doing the opposite. Yet the ill humoured chuckle still rolled of his tongue as he stared past John and towards the sky where the grey clouds tumbled over one another, being pushed around by the wind. It was going to rain again soon. 

“It's no good laughing, Sherlock. I can't read minds.” 

“No, you can't. Can you?” Sherlock said, smile faltering as he chanced a glance back towards John. His head was tilted slightly, face heavily lined with confusion, and there were those eyes again. Narrowed as he tried to work Sherlock out: it was so easy. So easy to read the hesitation. Sherlock sighed. “Well that's one thing I've got going for me, I suppose.” 

“What do you mean?” John inquired, not taking a step forward but seeming to be closer somehow. 

“That you don't know what goes on in my head,” Sherlock replied shortly. “That you have no idea what I think, or who I think it about. I know where you go, John. When you vanish without a word. And I don't mind. Why should I? I mean, it's not like we’re together, or anything. You can date whoever you'd like. Why should I care?” 

“You seem to care quite a bit,” John cut in, but his voice was sympathetic and Sherlock was surprised to find that he was smiling. Great. John’s sympathy was exactly what he needed. “And I haven't been dating anyone,” John continued. “Mycroft thought you'd think that. I guess he was right.” 

Now, Sherlock frowned. Above them, the wind blew harder and the surrounding park became brighter. John blinked at him, and as he shut his eyes to reopen them they became warmer. The currents were changing. 

“Mycroft? What's Mycroft got to do with this any of this?” Sherlock quizzed, growing irritated. Because of course Mycroft was involved somehow. When was he ever not?

“Mycroft's…” John faltered as Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Helping me?” He finished, shrugging his explanation. Sherlock shook his head.

“Helping you with what?” He demanded, earning him an exasperated laugh from John. 

“Schedules.” 

Sherlock’s brows knitted together, not understanding any of what John was telling him. Had he missed out on something crucial? It wouldn't have been the first time. He remained silent, waiting for John to explain properly. 

“Look,” John began. “I'm not a rich man. Never have been, probably never will be. The money I get from the doctor’s is alright, but the debts mostly outweigh them. You listed all of the things you do for me. If it wasn't for you I’d probably been sitting in a council house somewhere, doing God knows what. All I know is that I’d be the most miserable bastard going.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth to make his opinion known, but John silenced him with a quick scowl. 

“Basically, what I'm trying to say is that if you hadn't appeared in my life when you did I wouldn't be as happy as I am now. You’ve given me so much, Sherlock. So much and I can never repay you properly. Sure, you drive me crazy,” at that, Sherlock shrugged. Not even attempting to deny it. “But you helped me to live in a prime London spot. You helped me when Harry was being Harry. You helped me to see the side of London I'd never have seen otherwise. I owe you so much, and I appreciate you infinitely more so.” 

“But-” Sherlock started, but John silenced him again. 

“Just hear me out. I got another job, and by another job I mean I've been helping out Mycroft. This is on top of working at the surgery and working as your blogger - which I know for a fact you secretly like,” he added with a grin, and Sherlock was forced to chew back a guilty smile. “It's just a few evenings a week. Mainly it's sitting in bars and watching people, then reporting back to him.” 

“So you're Mycroft's spy?” Sherlock queried. “I thought you were better than that.” 

John puffed his chest. 

“I am Mycroft’s spy, in a way. But you shouldn't make fun of people’s jobs, so be quiet,” John retaliated with a smirk, to which Sherlock laughed. “I'm trying to repay you.” 

The clouds began parting, allowing for specks of light blue to be seen in between the branches of the bare trees. A few metres away, the squirrel poked its head out of the hollow it had been hiding in. Claws clung onto the greying bark as it leaned forward, surveying the scene taking place below. 

“Repay me?” Sherlock repeated slowly. “Repay me for what? We split the rent-”

“No we don’t. I do look at the cost, Sherlock, and special discount or not you pay way more than me. I’m not stupid. I know that half the time you put the money back into my account.”

Sherlock ignored him and continued.

“You wouldn’t have had to see your sister if you didn’t want to-”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” John supplied. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“And as for helping you to see a different side of London, you can see it regardless as to whether I’m there or not. I just helped to open your eyes a bit,” he responded. “You don’t owe me. You don’t need to repay me.” 

“But I want to repay you,” John stated. “Which is why I’ve booked a holiday, if you’d be, er,” he shuffled awkwardly on his feet, looking at the ground with his hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“If I’d be…?” Sherlock prompted, although he’d already decided on his answer. 

“If you’d be willing to go with me?” 

Sherlock blinked, removing his own hands from his pockets and folding them across his chest instead. John lifted his head to face him properly. This wasn’t how he’d expected it to go. The way John was glaring at him not five minutes beforehand, sherlock was fully expecting to return to an empty flat. 

“Sorry, I’ll cancel it, if you-”

“Where’s it to?” 

The question knocked John backwards. He gawped. 

“Well, it’s a bunch of places, actually,” he told him, perking up slightly. “Places that Mycroft’s told me you have a bit of a soft spot for. I didn’t know you’d helped that Prince. I got in contact with him and he said we’d be welcome to visit him and stay in his palace...” John was getting carried away. How long had he been keeping this secret? Sherlock smiled to himself. John hadn’t been growing tired of him, or more irritated. He’d been trying to do something for Sherlock. To repay him. 

That explained why he was so grumpy lately. If he was managing three(ish) jobs, then that was a good enough excuse for being snappy and short-tempered. The more Sherlock pushed him, the more infuriated he became. Of course he’d stormed off earlier, after such a little argument too. Sherlock was almost crying. 

“So this is why you’re so angry with me lately?” Sherlock asked, feeling the relief flood through him. A small robin hopped out onto the path not far away, and began chirping away merrily. It was soon joined by another, harmonising the song they were singing. John nodded. 

“Yeah…” he scratched the back of his neck. “It’s just, you’re annoying as hell.” 

“And yet you’re still willing to go on holiday with me,” Sherlock quipped. “I presume we’ll be staying in hotels at some point. Different rooms? Please tell me that at least one of them has a balcony so that I can claim it,” he couldn’t pretend to not be excited. He was going on holiday. With John. He almost felt like joining in with the robins’ cheery tune. 

“No, actually,” John supplied, smiling guiltily. “The same hotel room. If that’s alright with you?” 

Sherlock frowned. 

“The same hotel room?” He scrunched his nose up, but before he had time to say anything else on the subject John was hurriedly covering his tracks. 

“No, I mean, well, there’re two rooms with beds in. So you can have your own bed, and I can have my own bed, if you, if you want,” John was blushing, and Sherlock was grinning. 

“... What if I don’t want my own bed?” He tried, but immediately regretted it. This was exactly the kind of thing he did to make himself sound like a twit. No wonder John had gotten angry with him. “That was probably the wrong thing to say. Sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

He was interrupted by John’s arms wrapping themselves around him, and pulling him into a bone crushing hug. 

“Stop talking,” John ordered, voice muffled by Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock nodded into John’s hair, doing his best to free his arms and enclose them around John. 

The squirrel, who had been doing his best to follow the argument made reconciliation, climbed down from the tree. Tail twitching as it stood up to watch the two men embrace, before running off in search of a place to hibernate. 

The robins stopped singing, deciding that they were no longer needed. Instead, they hopped along the path before flying into a local tree. Watching the scene from where they wouldn’t disturb it.

**Author's Note:**

> How was that? Alright? If you could let me know what you think that'd be brilliant. Thank you x


End file.
